Dying lasts –
but living does not last.
The journey’s
destination is soon clear
in the skin’s
thinning and the greyed-out hair.
If we knew when
we embarked
how quickly it
would all be past –
would we set out?
Death lasts,
but living does
not last.
Dying is not a
shadow, not a crow
circling, doesn’t
stand in doorways
hooded and
scythed. Its messages
are filled in
against your name, like this,
and handed to you
when you get your bones.
The waning
powers, the sagging breasts suggest
death lasts, but
living does not last.
Death abides
elsewhere, an untold land -
yet every word
that country speaks
is rooted in us
as a royal command.
Death comes to us
with empty hands,
and says: 'It is
time for us to go.
Your years and
days and hours are all gone past.
May you last
longer than mere dying lasts'.
